


505

by wreathed



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Developing Relationship, First Time, Hotel Sex, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone in a hotel room, James thinks about his almost-relationship with Jeremy, and waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	505

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by giddy_london.

James sits precariously on the edge of a pristine bed. He’s in a hotel room; it’s big, modern, anonymous. The sheets are pulled tightly over the mattress like canvas stretched over a frame. The edge of the bedspread is exactly perpendicular to the two pillows, which are exactly parallel to the line of the headboard. It’s _clean_ and belongs to nobody. The room must have been used for countless illicit encounters. James won’t be remembered.

He has tried to watch TV, but the oversized plasma screen mounted on the wall made his eyes hurt. He has tried to read a complimentary copy of _The Telegraph_ that he picked up from reception, but his hands are shaking.

So James continues to sit, upright, not wanting to lie down on the bed and ruin the room’s precision. He clasps his hands together to put on pretence of having some control, and waits. And remembers how the waiting started. How this all started.

***

It started at the end of filming the final episode in a series of _Top Gear_. Like the ending of every other series before it, in time-honoured tradition, the presenters and crew sloped off to the pub nearest the studio and got varying degrees of drunk.

Jeremy, James noticed, had monopolised his company for quite some time now. The two men were sitting on opposite sides of a cheap banquette that curved around a tiny table, the crew that remained were seated further away – most people had left by now, including Richard – and they were drinking pints of beer in relative moderation. Jeremy had been talking about Mercedes’ latest offering for the last ten minutes. Perfectly normal. But his innuendo seemed to be getting more frequent and less implicit, and he’d touched James’s knee twice. Not that James was noticing, or counting. He knew none of it would be happening if Clarkson was stone-cold sober, and James felt a mild irritation at the unreasonable, uncalled-for presence of a warm feeling coursing through him that he didn’t associate with alcohol.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” continued Jeremy, and then paused at James’s expression, the look on James’s face calling the unintended cliché to his attention. “D’you want another drink?”

“Is the Pope a Catholic?” replied James, grinning. “I’m going for a slash. Back in a minute.” As James got out of his seat, his body brushed against Jeremy’s again.

Jeremy followed James across the room with his eyes, unseen.

James’s nonchalance was as put on as his need to use the toilet. However, he found that the respite he’d planned was welcomed as he shut the door behind him and stood in the middle of the empty room, more weight on his left leg than his right, staring past a nicotine stain on the wall.

He started at the sound of the door quickly opening and shutting behind him, the sounds of pub chatter and clinking glasses filtering through for a moment. He could tell who it was without turning his head. Jeremy. He’d followed him, and he was next to James in two strides. He grabbed James by the shoulder and pulled him into the lone stall, on the other side of the room from the row of urinals.

It was cramped and had a toilet in it; where they were stood wasn’t sexy at all. But James didn’t notice because Jeremy pushed him against the partition and kissed him suddenly and furiously, smelling and tasting of beer and tobacco. Their tongues touched like frotting cocks, and at that delicious simile James wound his hands around the small of Jeremy’s back and pressed the man closer into him. Heat passed through him once more, not in short, sharp shocks from brief indentation of flesh against flesh, but in twisting, anxious rivulets, the feeling always flowing, never stopping.

James’s body seemed most akin to molten metal: heat consumed his being and unfolded from heart to fingertips; cock and resolve hardening at Jeremy’s touch. James kissed Jeremy, and he realised with a sudden clarity that he did not know how this was going to work. He was doing something that he had not thought through.

Jeremy spoke. “Stop thinking, May,” he breathed in James’s ear, his voice lacking its usual bite, physical closeness so great that distance was retained only by the conscious use of surname. “I can feel you doing it.”

Jeremy had decided to power through, James realised, not only because that was what Jeremy always did but so that James did not have time to think, did not have time to recoil from touch. And so James stopped thinking, he really did: perhaps he could think about this later, when Jeremy’s groin wasn’t so tangibly hard against his thigh. Order and purpose, reason and sense, for so long constants in James’s life, no longer had a hope.

***

 _This_ , realises James at that thought, _really was where it all started_.

***

James gave a contorted, gasping moan as Jeremy bit lightly on his earlobe, emphasising the sting of sweat where hair clung to the nape of his neck, and then–

Then someone came in. James froze, eyes screwed shut. Jeremy felt James’s entire body jolt. And thoughts, thinking, returned to James, unbidden – they were in a _public toilet_ and some of it was covered in _graffiti_ and he could hear this guy, possibly crew, possibly anybody, start to use a urinal.

Predictably, Jeremy appeared enticed by risk, and James’s reluctance to take one.

In what was something no more than air, what was such a non-existent whisper that James refused to consider that it could have come from Clarkson, Jeremy leaned right into James and muttered “We shall just have to be very, very quiet.”

Jeremy ran his hands down James’s back and passed his palms over James’s arse. Ignoring the panic in his friend’s eyes, he undid James’s jeans, feeling pleased that, at least, despite the wide-eyed shock, James was still aroused as hell. Jeremy was even more so since the unplanned pause: from seeing James’s breathing quicken, and because it had been a long time for him since sex had gone hand-in-hand with threat.

Jeremy opened his own belt buckle and fly with careful deliberation. The metal clinked, making what would have been too much noise if the ignorant third occupant of the room hadn’t clearly been drinking – the man was humming a non-tune to himself. The air thickened. Jeremy’s large, rough hands lowered the waistbands of their underwear simultaneously.

Every moan, every sound of pleasure was swallowed, stifled. James kissed Jeremy again, and they found that kissing helped, it muffled the noise. Blood discernibly rushed through James’s ears as he felt Jeremy’s cock, hot, so close to his, similar but not the same.

Then, their cocks were thrusting against one another, like tongues slipped between locked lips. Jeremy’s hand brought them off together, in control as James’s fingers were flimsily spread, helpless and uncaring against the partition of the toilet stall he was still pushed up against. Stooped slightly, Jeremy saw James’s lips pressed tight together, and, because James’s head was now thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing continuously as he furiously swallowed down sound.

Still stroking quickly with a move previously practiced only on himself, Jeremy leant in once more, and James’s breath grazed his face, the tang of alcohol discernable. Strangely more intimate than their fervent kissing, the subtle not-quite-touch of their lips and the graze of James’s just-appearing stubble pushed Jeremy over the edge, and he felt a feeling of warmth run over his right hand. Jeremy was reminded of the shocking intimacy of eye contact as James finally looked at him– not at where Jeremy’s shirt was open at the neck or at the line of hair from Jeremy’s navel to his groin, but at _him_. James’s lips were red and slightly parted.

James was shuddering. He was doing so, Jeremy realised, no longer because of terror at their location but because he was coming too, in two short pulses, adding to the mess between them. To James’s own horror he couldn’t help expelling a groan and exhalation in combination, but as he stood arched and unmoving like a hunting cat, he could hear no-one else in the room bar Jeremy. James and Jeremy found themselves inhaling and exhaling, not quite in tandem, from exertion and amazement. From relief.

There was a strange restraint in their sounds of pleasure staying choked-off. Doing so said _I still have control_. _I could stop this any time I want_. But it is possible for silence, as well as words, to lie.

***

All James has to look back on is silence, but he decides that’s what he wants – he certainly doesn’t want to tell anyone what’s going on, he’s not even sure if he has the words to describe it. He likes the simplicity of how he and Jeremy fit, somehow, when kissing, tasting, coming. Their frenzied meetings are sporadic in time and spirit, but nothing else would work. It’s either this – waiting, driving, rearranging – or nothing. Nothing would be easier, should be more appealing, but even the thought of it is like a punch to the gut.

James’s mobile phone rings, not silent at all, and the dull, artificial sound breaks his train of thought. James can read the bright screen’s display from where he sits: it says _Jeremy Clarkson Mobile_. James doesn’t move. Jeremy will ring again in a few moments, because ever since _this_ has been going on, James has never picked up first time.

The fizz of arousal is no longer from anticipation only; James is hard from a memory that’s old enough to have long faded if he hadn’t had replayed the event so many times in his head, if it hadn’t been so important.

He doesn’t wank. Good things come to those who wait, and James is good at waiting.

***

To never speak of it again. That would have been simple. To explain it all away in their minds as a quick handjob between friends after a few too many drinks. Then to forget it ever happened.

It wasn’t like that.

The first time was a warning James should have taken heed of – that every encounter, just like the first one, would be dangerous and far from sensible. They could get caught so easily, Sarah or Francie could find out. Or the press. But no-one was championing logic’s cause when Jeremy Clarkson was grunting out your name, over and over.

It all fell in to place, surprisingly easily, no awkward exchange required. Now and again, James got a call from Jeremy, and he could tell early on, from an additional layer of something in Jeremy’s voice, that he wasn’t calling to ask him something about the show or newspaper columns, he was calling to arrange a time and a place. They stayed away from either of their houses, perhaps wishing to avoid unbreakable associations of memory for places they saw every day, and hunted out hotels where booking two rooms was discretion enough.

James found himself, much to his irritation, hoping for their next fuck to happen soon, sooner. He kept thinking about Jeremy at wholly inappropriate times, and forced his mind to wonder elsewhere. But he could not prevent both his fears and his fantasies pervading his subconscious.

Once, he dreamt he was lying on his side and bringing himself off with long, smooth strokes, sweat in a sheen across his face.

“Started without me?” Jeremy had encircled an arm around James’s waist and bent down to murmur in his ear.

“I thought – you – weren’t – coming.”

“I always do, in the end.” A low laugh. “But I think you’re coming first.”

Jeremy had traced his hands down James’s stomach to take over from James’s own, and then-

And then James had woken up, his sheets in disarray, cock tenting his boxers.

Jeremy thought that James probably received a perverse satisfaction from the restrictions both their lives put on the frequency of their clandestine meetings, the rationing of pleasure. There was never enough time.

Jeremy was less of a natural thinker than James; he threw himself into objectives that kept him busy, and was always the one to organise the logistics – when were he and James next both free and far from anywhere?

***

The phone rings for a second time. James picks up.

“James! Are you there?”

“Of course I’m here, you cock. Funnily enough, I don’t have someone here to answer my phone.” James can tell that Jeremy is driving because he can hear the unmistakable sound of a petrol engine crackle down the line.

“I meant there at the hotel, if you were checked in.”

“I’m here. I’m waiting, Clarkson. Hurry up.”

“Hurry up? Bit rich, coming from you.”

There is a pause. Then, as if the gear stick Jeremy holds in his left hand has an additional ability to shift the tone of conversation, he changes to fifth and changes the subject.

“Have you had-?” Jeremy begins.

There is still economy in their speech. Both are cautious that it is too easy to say too much.

“Sarah’s been very busy. I haven’t – well, there’s got to be someone else involved for it to count, hasn’t there?”

James’s tentative words suddenly seem very visual to Jeremy, and he can’t help thinking of James sending himself crazy, colour in his cheeks, jerking himself off with long fingers wrapped around his own-

“Christ James, that’s – I nearly crashed the car when I thought of you doing that.”

“And there’s your reason why using a mobile and driving at the same time is illegal. There aren’t any police cars around are there, Jez? It’d be bloody typical, wouldn’t it, first time in months and you never get here because you’re caught speeding or phoning or wanking at the wheel?”

“Fine, I’ll go. See you in about twenty minutes.”

“Room five-oh-five,” says James, because Jeremy will never think to ask, and he ends the call with a short beep.

Jeremy tosses the phone back on to the passenger seat. He thinks of James, doubtlessly bored by his surroundings, because the sterile order of the hotel room would leave him nothing to put right. He would be sitting. Jeremy thinks of the way James sits, with his legs open, oblivious to how attractive it is.

In the absence of patience, Jeremy opts for power, and only slows down when in a speed camera’s sight.

***

They’d had some really great sex. Fantastic sex. After all, that was surely the point. Time passed. They knew what each other liked.

Jeremy liked watching James sink to his knees, head bowed and hidden by his hair – that split-second moment before he knew his shaft would be engulfed in heat made his cock throb.

James liked – it reminded him of the first time – the feeling of their bodies rutting together, the shifting closeness, when he and Jeremy were frotting or fucking.

It didn’t take over their lives. Whenever James found himself descending into flights of ridiculous fancy like _what if Jeremy left Francie?_ he tinkered with one of his old motorcycles or something similarly mundane and absorbing.

Maybe the rarity of the affair’s consummation made it better. For they still met regularly as friends, at work, sometimes with Richard, sometimes not, and that helped everything on the outside remain the same – their relationship had two parts that did not meet, and James realised that they could not, that they were barely possible disjoined as they were; they would never tessellate comfortably and easily like jigsaw pieces.

***

Having checked into his own room and left his bags there, Jeremy climbs a flight of stairs from the fourth to the fifth floor. He quickly finds the fifth door along the first corridor he comes to, and the numbers in a dull and functional script, fastened at eye level, echo in his head the way James had said them, soft and resigned: _five oh five_. Jeremy knocks.

Jeremy had planned to not even kiss James, to bend him over the hotel bed and sate the need he’d felt all day, but as James opens the door, something in the other man’s eyes makes Jeremy put aside his intentions for the moment.

The wooden door, as heavy as age, slams shut as James lets go of the handle. “We’ve been waiting a while for this.”

Jeremy moves towards James suddenly, craving an end to sound for once. But James merely sighs quietly, and looks at Jeremy like that, and Jeremy recognises his friend’s need for something more than the sort of sex that just anyone could give him. He stops.

“Years, this has been going on. Years.” James sounds almost weary, and the years are personified in Jeremy’s mind at his words, stretched never-ending behind and in front of them like an American highway.

“Lets not talk about it-” and Jeremy sounds almost desperate, pleading.

“And not once have I fucked you. You’re the one always in control; you initiated this before I could even work out what was going on.”

“James-”

“You need to control me! You don’t let me stop to wonder if this is the right thing to be doing because it isn’t, and you need this more than me.” James’s voice slows. “I reckon I could stop this. I don’t think you could.”

A pause, deep as a heavy baseline, hangs in the air before Jeremy gives his reply.

“It’s not about control, it’s-”

“Isn’t it?” James moves a step closer to Jeremy. “Then let me-”

“No.”

“Why?” And then silence. Everything’s clearest in the silence.

But Jeremy, as he so often does, reintroduces words. “I don’t want your cock up my arse!”

James ignores Jeremy’s forced levity. Nights like these are not for their other selves, the joking friends, the TV mates. Nights like these are for something that’s them enough it needs no words, sometimes so intense they feel as if they could set the room alight.

“Do this for me. I want to do it. Make you mine.”

Jeremy laughs humourlessly. “But you’re not! You can’t be. I can’t leave my–” and Jeremy breaks off and looks away so that he appears he is no longer talking to James, but himself. “For God’s sake, you’re not.”

Jeremy’s eyes widen as James closes the gap between their bodies and gives Jeremy a teeth-clashing kiss. He growls, and Jeremy feels a familiar dash of blood to his groin. Jeremy finds the situation genuinely strange – he has never before been the one to be pushed. It is subservient somehow, and he hates the fact that he thinks he _likes_ it.

James is still kissing him, and Jeremy wants more than that, but he finds that James is holding his hands steadfast by grasping his wrists.

It is at this point Jeremy realises all the concessions he has unwittingly made for James, and, terrifyingly, realises that he is not the one in control at all.

With a surprising level of dexterity, James uses one hand and an elegant flick of the fingers to undo Jeremy’s shirt buttons, his other hand still with one of Jeremy’s wrists in its grasp. Jeremy can feel the vibrations from that shaking grip all the way up his forearm.

With Jeremy’s shirt now off, James nips and licks at the other man’s exposed nipples, darts of pleasure sparking along Jeremy’s spine. James moans and feels heat rush to his cheeks as he watches Jeremy watching him. Jeremy lets James lift his hips off the bed so James can yank down his trousers and underwear, and take off his socks and shoes. James, Jeremy realises, is still fully clothed, and Jeremy swipes at James’s t-shirt with the vague thoughts of _skin, James, I need_ and he is barely aware in the incoherent haze of James reaching over for something to the left of him as he takes in James’s wholly dishevelled appearance, t-shirt now partly askew due to Jeremy’s grabbing movements.

Then Jeremy feels himself being turned over on the bed. His aching cock is pushing into the side of the bed, his knees and toes are resting on the hotel room’s hard wooden floor. The rest of his body is pressing into the mattress. James stands behind him and pushes his legs apart, most of his clothes still on. Jeremy feels exposed.

“Don’t move,” James says, as he steps away from Jeremy slightly and Jeremy makes to push himself to standing. He stills at James’s words. Jeremy cannot see because his forehead is resting on the bed, he can only listen: he can hear James’s breathing, quicker than usual, and James slowly and deliberately undoing the zip on his trousers.

“You want this.” James’s tone is low, demanding and not a question, and Jeremy doesn’t think he’s been this aroused in his entire life.

Jeremy grinds his hips against the bed, feels the unrelenting floor against his knees. “ _James_.”

He feels James slip a single finger, cool with lube, into his tight arse, and hears the sound of the intrusion. He rarely does this to James, preferring to watch James prepare himself, his legs spread as he makes short, breathy sounds, his eyelids fluttering closed like sighs. The thought of James doing this make Jeremy relax a little, and James inserts a second finger, moving the digits in tandem, enticingly avoiding Jeremy’s prostate.

Jeremy can feel the heat of James’s cock near his arse, and he knows that even James’s self control couldn’t last much longer. He is right: there is no third finger, only James pushing the head of his cock into Jeremy, pressing Jeremy against the side of the bed, and James giving a long sound. He slowly sinks the rest of his cock into Jeremy, and as Jeremy feels him pull out again with careful deliberation, his hole wonderfully _filled_ and slick with lube and James’s precome, he desists from gritting his teeth with difficulty and almost screams out his plea for James to fuck him, properly.

James does. Jeremy can feel his exquisite, unrelenting thrusts and the pressure of James’s fingers grasping his lower back hard enough to leave bruises. He can feel the coarse hairs that cover James’s legs on either side of him, sliding against his own and creating a slight, scraping friction. The air is filled with noise.

Buried to the hilt inside Jeremy, at the crux of an erratic movement that their bodies can not quite forgive, James comes, and Jeremy has never been so aware of the familiar white-hot heat. James reaches for Jeremy’s cock, still shoved into the mattress, but his hand barely touches Jeremy before Jeremy’s coming too, panting from exertion and beyond having the ability to think. It’s how it often ends: brain a blur, free of guilt and worry for the moment.

The two men collapse on the bed; not even James is thinking of the mess.

“This works,” says Jeremy after a while, almost to himself. The only person he has in his thoughts is James. But James has recovered faster and is already thinking properly again.

“Only in here,” James reminds him. “Only now.”

“We need to stop this. What could make us stop?”

James is no longer sure that it’s Jeremy that needs this most. Even though there is still control in his actions and decisions, he feels those last remnants slipping dangerously away. Even as they age, even, James thinks wildly, even if they are found out–

“I don’t think we’ll ever stop.”


End file.
